T H E E N D C O M M U N E

where are the beautiful angels,
the grapes, the wine, the harps
and all of the grace and absolution?
where is your redemptive storm
and the bluest fires of exoneration?
your graceful shower of care,
warmth’s balsam, all the pests of pity?

my skin boils still, and my heart,
a weird and gloomy thing:
a fortress as useless keeping things in
as it is keeping things out;
its moat is shallow and a sewer;
the gates are crumbling and dusting;
the stonework rickety and unstable,
and the peasantry all around it
is stricken with drought and devilish famine.

things need work and things need care;
with the exception of honey and art,
left to their own devices,
everything goes from bad to worse;
and it is a rule which applies
to the existentialism of man also.